


Fragmented Anamnesis

by cc5



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Coda is referenced, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Memories, blood is mentioned but nothing too graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 14:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5873602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cc5/pseuds/cc5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl has trouble remembering Beth, no matter how hard he tries- the memories are fading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragmented Anamnesis

**Author's Note:**

> This, again, was more of a writing exercise. I hope you'll enjoy it! ❤︎  
> Only rated mature because of mentions of Coda, blood and character death. Potty mouth as well but not overly so. Let me know if you need me to add additional tags/ trigger warnings.
> 
> (Also again, please note that English is not my first language and I have no beta. Apologies for any mistakes!)

He doesn’t remember the sound of her voice.  
This has been tormenting him to the brink of despair. 

He doesn’t remember her song, or her whispers, doesn’t remember her giggles, or the little  _ hmmpf  _ sound she made when displeased. Doesn’t remember her yelling, or her crying, doesn’t remember her storytelling voice, or the soft way she spoke to Judith. She used to hum, all the time, even back at the farm so many years ago, but he cannot recall.

He remembers the songs she sang- At numerous fire pits, at the prison, at the funeral home:  

___Of all the comrades that e'er I had_  
___And all the sweethearts that e'er I had_  
___They would wish me one more day to stay_  
___But since it falls unto my lot_  
___That I should rise and you should not ___  
_I'll gently rise and I'll softly call_  
___Good night and joy be with you all_

At times he tries to replay a melody, but in his memory it is not accompanied by her gentle tone. It sounds off, sounds so very wrong, hauntingly slowed down to the point he can’t bring up the song again. 

He doesn’t remember all her words. Some sentences come back to him, but they never seem truly right, except the one-  _ I will be gone one day.  _ Other conversations, lost. Only left are half-sentences, nonsensical and empty of any meaning. But he knows, she did speak a lot, about everything and nothing, to soothe and to entertain and he wishes for more stories all the time.

He remembers that there was a softness to her voice, always, a pleasantness in speech and song even when he told her otherwise, even when he told her to stop making  _ so much fucking noise, all the fucking time _ , to shut up even. Because he did. He took her voice for granted and what wouldn’t he give now to hear her say anything, if only a single word, one last time.

He remembers her sitting at the piano, fingers gliding over the keys so gracefully, strong when they needed to be and feather-light a beat later. Remembers the way the candlelight made her hair shine in a dark orange that reminds him of the fire they’d set to the moonshine shack (and the blood that covered her hair much later on). The flickering light framing her head like a halo, which is such a ridiculous comparison of course. She was no angel, he wouldn’t dare to put her on that pedestal but she was simply, genuinely  _ good _ . The last truly good person in the world perhaps, and that might not sound like much but it gave him more hope and courage than anything else in this desolate world could.

He doesn’t remember how her pale skin felt under his fingertips when he taught her how to shoot his bow and corrected her stance.   
He doesn’t remember the pointiness of her elbow when he reached for it to nudge her forward.  
He doesn’t remember how her weight felt on his back, her arms slung around his neck, during that serious piggyback ride. 

He remembers her hair tickling his face when he leaned close to see if her aim was good.   
He remembers her breath on his neck when she hugged him from behind, warm and enveloping him with calm even in the Georgia summer heat.   
He remembers her smell, the sweetness of her sweat and the bitterness of cold smoke from their nightly fires. The lingering smell of cherry blossom from her soap, mixed with the piney, earthy smell of nature around them, penetrating their pores.  
The smell of decay and coppery blood layered on top; she smelled of death as much as she did of life. 

He remembers the shape of her lips, and the way her tendons curved along her neck. The daintiness of her wrists.  
The sway of her hips when she ran. 

But as much as he tries, truly and always tries- he does not quite remember her face. Only remembers her body in fragments, cannot picture her whole anymore. Were he to paint her, the canvas would show merely pieces of the puzzle that once came together as one unique human being.

(Something inside him shattered as well, and those fragments bury painfully into his flesh, never to be put together again.)

She’s falling apart in his memory, every day a little bit more- little pieces going missing. He can still see her eyes when he closes his and forces them shut in concentration, pressing his palms hard to his eyes until his head aches under the pressure. On good days, his mind allows him to see her eyelashes and the way she blinked, and he tries to count them one by one until the image fades, and it always does far too fast.

And all the colors about her, they start to fade and yes, he knows her eyes are blue, but what shade? How light or how dark?

What type of yellow was her polo? What colors her bracelets? What shade of brown her boots? How pink her lips and how blonde her hair?

So she keeps falling apart in his memory, into tinier pieces every day, pieces that turn into a grey monochrome. She is fading away from his mind, sneaking her way into the nothingness and he  _ should _ remember for he remembers everything else so vividly: he can describe in great detail the first time he killed a rabbit, skinned it, cooked and ate it. After so many years he still knows every tiny part; the softness of the fur, the warmth of the blood, the exact shape of its little dead eyes, the sound of the burning flesh over the scorching fire, the taste of the charred meat.

Her death, unlike the rabbit’s, he does not fully remember. This part of her life is a fragmented flash of images that are devoid of all color except the red of her blood sprayed over the hallway and over his face. 

Warm droplets with a metallic tang like acid on his skin.

His nightmares are now abstract, grotesque but almost always he wakes up with the smell of gunpowder in his nose. Knowing he killed the cop lady doesn’t lessen the pain. By now, Noah is dead as well- Beth’s death as such was in vain.

So there is pain. There is an ache, a dullness, the all encompassing gaping hole she left behind after carefully entangling herself into his life.   
There is despair and anguish.  
There is anger. Why did this happen, why did she step in front of Dawn, how could she be so fucking stupid? Leaving them all behind. Leaving him with his chest torn open and bleeding.

There is love. He loves her and loved her for a long time. Now he knows and can admit it, if only to himself. And he will love her for as long as he walks this earth. It’s just that simple and if there is anything he’s truly sure of it’s this: He’s never loved anyone as he loves her and no matter how furious he gets or falls numb for weeks at a time: He will always love her and this is what keeps him moving.  
He uses this love to spread it over his family like a blanket to protect them. Care for them in her stead; for her and in the way that he failed her. 

There is longing, for memories. Like the sound of her footprints trailing through the forest with him, the tap of her boots on gravel or tar. She always had a different rhythm since her steps were smaller than his, but just as persistent.  
Like the carefree giggles when they burned down the shack, the smell of fire in their noses and taste of liquor on their tongue. He knows that after her tears  had dried that night, she’d been happy again. They had been happy for a little while.

They had been happy together. No amount of grumpiness or hunger had taken that away. Sadness and fear had been pushed far away many times. There was joy, it lay in good fortune and good company, it lay in peanut butter and pigs feet, it lay in song and piggyback rides. It lay in those small touches.  
Her small hand on his arm, squeezing gently when she found something that excited her. Sometimes she’d elbow him in the ribs instead, especially once she noticed that it tickled him, slightly, which he kept denying of course. 

No matter how strong the storm or how dark the night, there was always a bit of light around them, and he knows now that it was her. Trying to hold onto that light now is hard. The illumination becoming dimmer and darker.

But she’d told him something once, about letting go before it kills you. Like with everything else the exact words escape him. But after much contemplation he can't help but disagree with her. In this case, letting go would be far worse. For as long as he's able he'll hold unto her light, no matter how fast or far her memory fades from his mind.

They don't have much these days, and he doesn't own anything of value but his bow and the knife she used to wear. But that's enough.  He can keep himself busy and keep hoping that he makes decisions that would make her proud and maybe,  hopefully,  if the gods permit this will help with the growing despair about losing the memory of her.  
So he's making  _ new _ memories, a true effort, and when he sees her again, he will tell her about all that she's missed. Her laughter will fill his ears and her eyes will shine their brightest blue and her hand will be so soft and warm in his. 

And then, all those lost memories, those fragmented pieces will set themselves together again and it will be alright. He just has to hang on. One day at a time, for her, everything for her now, he knows he's living on borrowed time but he'll make the best of it. 

  
(Maybe the fragments tearing him bloody from the inside will also fall back together again. Maybe he will find peace in his own end, whenever it may come.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading until the end! 
> 
> As my own memory is pretty terrible I wanted to attempt to explore what it must feel like when the memory of a loved one is slowly fading. Hope I wasn't too far off the mark. 
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated, I also look to improve my writing. Thank you! ❤︎


End file.
